


The Canvas of a Heart

by cadkitten



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Buddhism, Catholicism, Confessions, Depression, Drawing, Engagement, Islam, M/M, Making Love, Mental Anguish, Mental Instability, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tattoos, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 12:10:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: It's always like this for Damian: this desperate need to remain buried under the rally of words likeweaknessandpatheticandneedy. The pull of the negative words weighs him until he cannot remain still, until his skin itches to make him move and his fingers begin to tremble.





	The Canvas of a Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a discussion with youcantsaymylastname about a tattoo I found that was just gorgeous and belonged on one of the batboys. Also pseudo from another conversation about how, as a fandom, we seem to skirt around Damian having any kind of religion for some reason. I didn't actually set out to include that in here but as you'll see... I did.  
> The tattoo: <http://i65.tinypic.com/vrwtms.jpg> \- from The Inked Boys app  
> Beta: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "Already Gone" by Disturbed

Damian trails his fingers over Tim's back. They're both naked, their heartbeats calming down, both having found their bliss only minutes before. 

It's always like this for Damian: this desperate need to remain buried under the rally of words like _weakness_ and _pathetic_ and _needy_. The pull of the negative words weighs him until he cannot remain still, until his skin itches to make him move and his fingers begin to tremble on Tim's pristine flesh.

Pulling away, he closes his eyes and sends up a silent plea, unknowing and uncaring which god may see fit to respond to him today. He's never been fully attached to any one religion; perhaps a remnant of his upbringing, of the ways his mother's servants hid away their practices and his family had none. Of how he was shuffled off to a monastery once he came to live with his father and then came back only to be presented with a sincere _lack_. 

Some things remained, some burrowed deep under his skin and muscles and seeped into his bones and his bloodstream and wouldn't let him go. He still kneels on his sajada every day and he still whispers the words his servants had let free into the quiet halls around their chambers. He also has an altar, burns his incense that doesn't remind him at all of where he'd once called home, and believes in some way in a god that has more to do with the snatches of Jason's religion than his own. Then there's _this_ , these whispered prayers into the abyss that never truly have a single god in mind. Perhaps, he thinks, he believes that they're all right in their own ways. Perhaps, that is why he kneels on the edge of Tim's bed and begs whoever's listening in the silence to give him the strength to stay tonight.

He stands and he thinks for an instant he'll leave, that he'll just let Tim lay there and slip out unnoticed, uncared for, and he'll find his regrets in the morning light. Then, his hands are digging in his bag, sure and steady and he _knows_. He's been given strength tonight: the strength to stay, to do what he has to in order to get what he _needs_.

Brown Sharpie in hand, he settles astride Tim's thighs, eases against him with a quiet sigh, a deep seated need for contact uncoiling inside him. _Touch starved_. He knows what it is, knows it'll never go away, but that doesn't mean he can't conquer it once in a while. 

Leaning over Tim he uncaps the marker and the tightness in his belly relaxes as the felt tip touches the canvas of Tim's skin. He doesn't know or understand what he's creating; it doesn't truly matter in that moment. He glides the marker over the expanse and a design begins to form. It's as bold as it is intricate and he hopes the Sharpie will last through the design, would hate to see it go unfinished.

When he's done there's a gnarled tree, laced with ivy, sprouting from Tim's spine, coming down from the base of his skull and flaring along the small of his back. Between the branches there are birds, the mood and the haze of clouds trying to obscure it, the smattering of leaves an indication of the time of year and he sits back, his heart steady and his hands sure, and he knows he's fed the need inside him for now. Given himself enough he can safely escape, leave Tim to find his artwork in the morning, his lover's breath having evened out nearly an hour before. 

When he leaves, it's with a pause at the door that makes his heart yearn, his body ache, and he wishes like hell he could bring himself to stay. Wishes it wasn't like this every day, every _time_. If there's a prayer he says in that moment, his mouth moving with soundless words, then he can't possibly think too hard on it. And if his heart feels broken as he leaves, then he shouldn't dwell on that either.

*********

Tim sends him a picture of the art in the morning, a big orange heart sticker over the parts that would have made the picture _raunchy_. He smiles and he saves it away in the ever growing collection of such artworks. He knows it'll be days before it leaves Tim's skin, before he's washed it all away... before Damian's fragile claim falls away.

His heart aches and he closes his eyes, clenches his fists and thinks to himself: life would be so much easier if he could only express how he truly feels.

*********

Weeks make their way past before he finds himself settled on Tim's lap, this time his body settled against Tim's chest, his hands working over his lover's arm and shoulder, a realistic rendering of bone and muscle forming beneath his fingertips. He works for _hours_ , switches Sharpies from the bag he's brought a dozen times before he's done, and when he is, he's so tired he cannot bring himself to move, cannot convince his mind that it's worth it to move.

This time, this _one_ time, he'll remain. After all, Tim would want him to... right?

When he slips out hours later, he feels better than before, like he can make it longer before he finds himself in Tim's bed once again. He tells himself it's okay to want, okay to _need_ , as long as it's relegated to what he's created with Tim. As long as no one else sees his weakness, then perhaps it is okay.

*********

This one, too, ends up in his collection, his phone dinging in the early morning, a photo of his artwork and Tim's stretched out arm shown in the pristine mirror of his bathroom. Damian can see the dip of his hips, the start of the muscle-defined V heading toward what _isn't_ displayed and if he maybe saves that photo in two places, he cannot possibly be blamed for it.

*********

This time is different, this time feels so final and it's threatening to rip Damian apart inside. Tim's leaving town for months. He won't see him until, perhaps, early June and when he looks outside the window, he can see the starkness of the bare branches of the tree outside Tim's condo, and he feels like there's a hole growing in his soul. How can he ever make it long enough without him, without this? How can he fight down the desperate need inside him that drives him back here again and again? How can he _live_ without Tim?

He finds himself standing with his bag of Sharpies, swallowing back his fears, his tears, his aching agony, fingers gripping the bag too hard and his breath too ragged to mean anything good. Tim doesn't move, doesn't say a word and Damian knows why. He knows Tim's learned to wait him out, to let this be on his own terms if he wants it to happen at all. He knows asking will only drive Damian away from him. 

Damian calms himself, voicelessly falls over the words he's heard Jason whisper in the darkness so many nights, mentally ticks off every word of the prayer that burns inside of him and hopes Jason's God might be listening tonight. 

He finds the strength to settle on Tim's lap, to pull a thicker Sharpie than usual from his bag and set to work. This time it's deliberate, his lines darker and thicker to _last_. They have to last. Tim has to wear his mark as long as he possibly can. He knows inherently it won't last months – it _cannot_ last months – but if he can even mark him for a week then it's better than nothing at all.

His fingers move, his hands brushing over beautiful skin, sweeping his outline before he will even it out and create the final product. The marker moves easily over Tim's skin and he listens to the steady way his lover's breathing, to the way he's relaxed under him, and he cherishes it, finding another prayer, another language to ask for one small favor in the grand scheme of things. He wants Tim to come back to him – in one piece – still wanting _this_ with him. 

He pauses, his outline done and he gazes down at it, a few of the words of his prayer making it into the still air of the room, and he watches Tim stir ever so faintly and then relax again when Damian's hand presses to his chest, calming him and soothes away whatever his voice has raised inside Tim's mind. If he has to swallow a few times, he cannot be held responsible. 

He pulls the marker easily over Tim's ribs, sweeps it down over his side and cuts it to a straighter line, bringing it back over his abdomen and then down to arc toward the beautiful V of his hips. The drag of felt on skin is easy to him now, speaks to him like a gentle lover and he falls into the rhythm of it easily. There's a sadness in the air, a loss that he can already taste, but he finds strength in that, too. Strength that Tim will come back, that he will still want this from Damian when he does. Strength in the idea that there will still be life left to live on the other side of this mission.

His fingers create the head of each dragon, sweeping their heads down from Tim's collarbones and swirling the fire that they breathe over the pectoral muscles and when he's done, he sits back and he just stares down at his work, at the thick black ink that decorates the skin of the most precious human on this entire cursed planet. Gotham is a sink hole of filth, an abomination that breeds chaos and uncertainty and _death_ , but it also birthed the man sleeping so peacefully beneath him. It gave him hope and light and a path out of his own personal hell and for that, he owes the city more than he's willing to admit.

A single tear tracks down his face and he leaves it, acknowledges it only in passing, and fights down the desire to wake Tim and demand him to stay instead of go. He tips his head back and closes his eyes and tries to hold it all in. He fights down the anguish of loss and the fear of what could come to pass and cages it as he's been taught until his heart is steady and his hands have stopped shaking, until his heart is steel and his blood is cold. It's then that he leaves.

*********

It's early June when he sees Tim again, when he finally falls into his embrace and then into his bed. It's just as easy as it has always been and the need between them is the same. There's relief in that and Damian finds himself thankful that time hasn't changed a thing. He worships Tim in a way that is perhaps improperly paired with the prayers in his mind, his jaw sore and his heart singing by the time Tim pulls him up onto the bed.

They fall back on the sheets and there's something frantic in the way he doesn't quite get undressed, in the pull of his jeans around his thighs as he buries himself in the heat of Tim's body. Nothing can ever take this away from him. Nothing should ever pull Tim away for this long ever again. 

He buries his face in Tim's neck and he closes his eyes as he rocks into him, his breath hitching and his emotions crashing into him stronger than they ever have before. Tim's arms lock around him and his knees draw him in closer and Damian lets it happen without hesitation. 

He hears the words Tim speaks but he can't make sense of them. He knows they're gentle and reverent and all the things Tim always is with him, but he can't force them to register in the chaos of his mind. This is dependency and this is everything he's built to avoid and yet, he cannot bring himself to care. Perhaps if he tells himself it's symbiosis then it'll all be okay. He simply needs Tim to exist and if he's lucky, Tim needs him just as much.

The frantic way Tim clings to him, the desperate feel of his kisses, the tears that dampen his lover's cheeks tells him he isn't wrong. They tell him it's well past time they admit what this is and he finds the words lodged in his throat, finds them screaming in his brain as his thrusts become unhinged, as his heart swells and his body rushes with heat. The words free themselves as his body unravels, the quiet plea in a language he's half sure Tim doesn't know asking him to stay forever and when Tim's voice responds, tongue wrapping around the foreign words in a practiced sort of way, he _understands_. It was for him that Tim learned, that he drew in the knowledge of a language he has no other reason to know, and he crushes their mouths together as Tim spasms beneath him, as he falls apart and Damian finds it in him to help put him back together, one fragile second at a time.

He's intent when they separate, when he slips free of his body and stands to get his clothing free of his own. He's already envisioning the work he'll have to create on Tim's body tonight to satisfy the yearning within him, how much of his skin will be covered before he's had enough that he can slip out before Tim wakes. He struggles with his twisted up pants and he's distracted enough that when he turns Tim is just barely lifting his shirt over his head and Damian stops dead.

His heart thuds in his chest and his fingers tremble and he forgets all about his markers because _it's still there_. The twin dragons, the inky black of his claim on Tim, and it's impossible. It's been months and there's no way it should remain and yet, it does.

He pushes Tim down on the bed and straddles him. His fingers find the path his markers once took and he finds the work clearer along the edges than his had been, the little parts he knew he'd messed up, corrected. There's shock and then heat. There's no air in his lungs and he does something he never could before – he looks up into Tim's face. He sees it then: the love, the adoration and he _knows_. This is for _him_. This is a question and an answer and this is _forever_ and it's all he can do to take Tim's hands in his own, to clutch them tight and whisper the only three words that ever mattered. 

_Be with me_.

It's so simple to free them into the air and he thinks he should have said them sooner. He watches the light in Tim's eyes and feels the pressure against his palms, and then he feels like he's living in a dream because Tim's speaking and it's all he's ever wanted to hear. It is life and love and everything eternal and he thanks every god he can remember because clearly _someone_ was listening all this time. 

_I already am._

Something flickers alive inside him and he feels calm for the first time in all these years. It settles over him like a blanket and this time he doesn't need the markers, doesn't need the excuse to stay, and when he settles down beside Tim he feels it deep in his heart. It feels like the deepest sigh of relief and he knows deep down: _this is love_.


End file.
